Having spotted a suitable place to rest its weary wings, a bird alights upon my sky-facing shoe''s sole. A small, chubby thing, the bird calmly runs beak across its travel-ruffled feathers, apparently completely unaware of my considerable ire.


    My arms shake, muscles burning, as splayed-out fingers hold my entire body off the muddy ground. The bird sends out a cheery chirp as it shifts ever so slightly and casts my balance into Ginnungagap.


    I fall, splashing face-first into a mud-swamped puddle and sending the bird fearfully into the sky. I can only hope I lasted long enough to–


    A bundle of food lands at my side, spilling out into the mud. My stomach grumbles despite the foul conditions and I eagerly dig into the muck-drenched bread and cheese. Quickly, I devour what I can of the meal before a hand finds the back of my belt—finally, I''m out of that damned dress!—and wrenches me into the air.


    I dangle from Dad''s grasp as I shovel a block of cheese into my food-stuffed maw, forcing it past a lump of mud-wet bread and down my gullet.


    "What are the three ways you can use your Aspects?" He holds up five fingers and my eyes widen to their utmost limits. A finger falls and I nearly choke.


    Shit, fuck! Another finger falls, leaving me with three seconds to answer before I''m forced to do the Gods-damned mud-plank again. I swallow what food I can while spitting out the rest, which costs me another second. A wet cough leaves me with only a single second to my name as I finally force my words into action.


    "Healing, harming, and h-helping!" I gasp, nearly stumbling over the final word as I dangle in the air.


    "Good," Dad doesn''t smile as he drops me back into the muck, "Sax and shield, two minutes." He walks off to drier land, his shoes annoyingly clean while he leaves me to scramble upright.


    Scowling, I swiftly collect my equipment and race to meet Dad at his chosen training ground. He watches me approach with a face carved from granite. I shuffle along, more than a little nauseous with how fast I had to eat my food, only for Dad to meet me half-way.


    Lightning fast, his forearm catches me across the throat, crushing it utterly and dashing me against the ground so hard that bones snap. He lifts his foot, ready to stomp me into oblivion, but I roll to the side just as the boot falls. Sax in hand, I cleave it across the back of his ankle as I climb to my feet. Dad falls and I drive my sax through the back of his head.


    He collapses into a pile of leaves and sticks as the plant-clone dies.


    "Good," Dad says from behind me, now with the slightest hint of a smile on his face. Rather than bask in his praise, I stoke my frami and bathe myself in crimson flame as its healing power washes over me. Bone and throat mend themselves as swiftly as they broke, just in time for the next assault.


    Crimson flame gathers in Dad''s palms as a salvo of bouncing fireballs race my way. I grit my teeth as I lift my shield and throw myself to the side. Landing on my shoulder, I ride the momentum and roll to my feet just as the next wave of blasts comes hurtling across the field.


    Again I dodge, again I roll to my feet only to be met with yet another series of fireballs. At this rate, I won''t be able to close the gap before one of them hits me. They bounce across the ground, leaving scorch marks wherever they greet the earth. Wait, only some of them scorch the earth.


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    That''s it!


    This time, instead of throwing myself away from the flames, I boldly step forward into the salvo. Careful to avoid the earth-scorching fire, I don''t even bother to defend as the rest splash harmlessly against my skin. Without ordstirr fueling it, fire lacks any sort of bite—a technique used to conceal how much ordstirr one is spending and one Dad has a particularly low opinion of.


    Dad continues sending blast after blast my way, progressively increasing the amount of real fireballs the closer I get. Even with the steadily growing number of fireballs, I keep moving as I nimbly dodge and dance around each and every as the gap ever-closes. Desperation crawls across his face as he readies his hands high above his head only for my shield to invert his elbows and for my sax to cleave him from head to chest.


    The plant-clone collapses into a pile of leaves and sticks.


    "Good," Dad says, once more behind me. This time, he''s armed with sax and shield as his smile grows into a proper grin. I advance, shield ready, and we meet in a clash of blades.


    He swings twice before thrusting; a steady tempo meant to lull me into a rhythmic pattern as I dodge and block the simple attacks. At some point, he''ll do something different to throw me off and I need to be ready for that. Probably a trick of some kind, like the Shatter-Wrist Trick.


    Of course, even if I need to be ready for his mix-up, I can still make moves of my own. After all, just as he keeps a steady rhythm of moves, so do I.


    I jab forward with my shield''s edge and Dad sways to the side, the sixth repetition of this move. Normally, I''d follow up with a head-chop and he''d block with his shield before countering with his own combo.


    He doesn''t see the Heel-Kick Trick coming before it''s too late—I really don''t want to have my wrist broken. Dad stumbles and I take advantage, hurling my shield into his face as I wrench his shield away and drive a half-dozen sax-stabs into the pit of his arm.


    The plant-clone collapses into a pile of leaves and sticks.


    "Well done," Dad says as he steps out from the copse of trees marking our training ground. He''s got a big dumb smile on his face and a pair of water canteens in his hand. He tosses one my way and I eagerly swallow it down.


    The cool water calms my nerves as I smile and wipe my mouth dry. "How''d I do?"


    Dad tilts his head to the side, a pensive look on his face. "Six out of ten."


    I gape, nearly dropping the canteen in my shock, "S-six?! That was easily a nine!"


    Dad chuckles, my dread rising alongside his hand, "You fell into the muck," he lifts a finger and I groan, "got caught by the armbar" another finger, "faced kunna-spray without considering alternative solutions," a third finger rises and I frown. Wait, six means I made four mistakes but I''m pretty sure I only made three, right? "And you were lulled into the battle-rhythm."


    "Oh, come on!" I scowl as I plant hands on my hips, "I won that exchange and you know it!"


    Dad gives me a flat stare, "Any strike that fails to kill or wound is worthless."


    "But I did kill you! My attacks were all leading up to Heel-Kick Trick!"


    "You were hitting my clone with attacks that, if they connected, wouldn''t have killed or wounded. The head-chop was the best of your combo, but the shield-edge would barely have bruised let alone break bone."


    I grumble and kick at a rock, "Fine, fine! Six out of ten."


    Still, I''m getting better. Every day, I climb closer to that vaunted ten out of ten.